I Felt It Shelter To Speak To

I Never Saw A Moor, I Never Saw The Sea; Yet Know I How The Heather Looks, And What A Wave Must Be. I Never Spoke With God, Nor Visited In Heaven; Yet Certain Am I Of The Spot, As If A Chart Were Given.

I Stepped From Plank To Plank A Slow And Cautious Way

Remorse Is Cureless--the Disease Not Even God--can Heal-- For 'tis His Institution--and The Adequate Of Hell

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.

To Lose What We Have Never Owned Might Seem An Eccentric Bereavement, But Presumption Has Its Own Affliction As Well As Claim.